


The Boy Who Leapt Through Time

by jongincident



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternative University - Ancient Korea, Character Death, Happy Ending, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:13:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27695386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jongincident/pseuds/jongincident
Summary: There is a haunting familiarity to the guy with a lopsided smile and a guitar on his back. As the roads stain with crimson and a siren cuts through silence, Baekhyunmusttry to remember.
Relationships: Byun Baekhyun/Park Chanyeol
Comments: 17
Kudos: 23
Collections: Magika Astra: Round 1





	The Boy Who Leapt Through Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fun prompt to write! To my prompter, I took some creative leeway with it, but hope you'll enjoy :) Thank you to the mods for hosting, and to every reader for your time.

_I._

It’s that time of the year when the city breathes and warm, silver puffs of water vapor mixed with ubiquitous egotism clogs the bleak air; like cigarette smoke, not only in appearance, but also in its self-destructive ambience. Breaths of death. 

“Here is fine,” Baekhyun tells the taxi driver, eyes glazing over the concrete jungle and its zombie-like inhabitants. He hands the driver a few wrinkled bills and rusty coins — exact measured change for his same daily fee. 

For some, routine is a necessary monotony, bearable only because the seven-figure paycheck is a narcotic illusion of joy. These are the people who complain that capitalism locks in unethical consumption but will gladly sell their souls to Samsung or Hyundai. For others, routine is the grim reaper. When they throw their bodies off skyscrapers, they aren’t really taking their lives because they’ve been empty shells for a while. 

For Baekhyun, routine is pleasant harmony. There’s bliss in predictable, optimized schedules. He’s built a home out of waking at 6:30 am, four-mile run, iced americano at 8:30, 20-minute taxi ride, work from 9-6 with a 15-minute lunch break, sushi takeout for dinner, Netflix, then lights out at 11. It’s safe. Definite. Why would he want anything else?

As he steps foot onto the busy intersection, his head is locked in the direction of his office building’s glass entrance doors. The hustle of mindless pedestrians and friction of tires against asphalt is merely a background hum. 

So when someone slams into his shoulder with full force and he’s knocked several steps backward, Baekhyun ignites. “Watch where you’re going, you crazy bast—” 

“Sorry, sir! Sorry!” The culprit is a youthful man with wide eyes and large ears, and there’s ingenuity in the way he carries himself, from his awkward gait to his lopsided smile (he has nice teeth). He’s a musician (guitar on his back) and he’s late (chasing a bus) for something urgent (he’s breathless and sweaty).

How Baekhyun deduces all of this from a fleeting glance, he has no idea himself. He’s not one to pay attention to others when there’s no obvious material benefit involved. But there’s something  _ different _ about this man. In Baekhyun’s four years at his current job, there hasn’t been one instance of his day being interrupted. Conformity courses through the veins of Seoulites. People strive to blend in and there’s no room for mistake, no time to be late; the world is unforgiving, cruel. How could someone be careless enough to rip through downtown Seoul, guitar balancing precariously on his back, chasing a bus that is about to pull away from the station? It’s a recipe for disaster.

And yet, Baekhyun doesn’t peel his eyes away, lips pursed and eyebrows pinched as if facial exertion might spark an epiphany. The musician reminds him of someone he might have once known, or perhaps of someone he will get to know. Something between déjà vu and foresight lingers on his tongue, but it’s hard to say whether the taste is bitter or sweet. 

“Wait!” The musician yells, as though the bus driver can hear him over the morning traffic. One arm grasps his guitar case strap and the other waves frantically. He’s just a dozen meters behind the bus, and Baekhyun finds himself praying for the guy’s success. 

The driver must have noticed the guy and the bus slows without bothering to pull over. The musician runs up to the bus entrance, relief stamped on his features. Baekhyun lets out a breath and water vapor curls in tendrils from his lips. What a strange scenario, he thinks as he turns back toward his office building. 

Then, from behind him: a harsh thud breaks through morning traffic. A long, blaring honk. The screech of rubber tires grating against pavement. A crack. And then, silence. The city’s cacophonous orchestra reaches a rest measure, and so does Baekhyun’s heartbeat. 

He doesn’t have to turn around to know what has happened. A metallic odor mingles with cigarette breaths, wrapping rough fingers around Baekhyun’s neck. A siren cuts through the silence, long wails like a mother mourning over her lost child. 

Even though Baekhyun knows that death has smeared its fingerprints all over this place, he still turns around, latching onto a whisper of hope that maybe, death was lenient this time. 

Crimson splattered against a black canvas. Pale limbs twisted in angles not physically possible, like a collapsed toothpick tower. The scene could be a live art exhibition, except the subject isn’t living. In a cruelly ironic fashion, the guitar case is splayed open, revealing a still in-tact instrument. But a guitar without its musician is just a wooden contraption. 

Not long after, the ambulance arrives and healthcare professionals swarm out like bees. Baekhyun wants to ask, Why bother? Stop wasting your time; the guy is  _ dead. _ People have already begun to return to their modus operandi, and the city orchestra crescendos. 

And yet. All Baekhyun can tune in on is the ever-so-slight quietness of a lost life, which is deafening to his ears. One less pulse, one less breath. However, in a society that worships homogeneity, one life is insignificant. 

Why, then, can’t he get the musician’s guileless face out of his head? That haunting familiarity persistently tugs at his conscience, and Baekhyun is filled with a thousand we-once-weres and we-could-have-beens.  _ The guy is dead, _ Baekhyun mentally repeats, but dissatisfaction wedges under his fingernails. The musician is a forgotten dream or an extinct language or fingertips trying to touch a cloud. Baekhyun  _ must _ try to remember.

Baekhyun reaches for the object on his wrist that he once vowed to never use again. Its smooth surface is cool against his warm fingertips. The gold watch catches the sunlight and it glints like a warning signal that’s made to be dismissed. It’s an antique, the kind that pawnbrokers swipe for jaw-droppingly cheap prices from desperate housewives. 

Holding his breath, he pulls the watch crown outward and turns it counterclockwise. The hands begin to spin. And so does the world.

***

“You can’t buy time,” Junmyeon, Baekhyun’s ex-supervisor, would say whenever he caught a worker slacking off. “So, get going. Money’s waiting. Scram.”

Junmyeon was both right and wrong. You couldn’t really pay cash for a few extra days for your investment project, but Baekhyun could get time for free. 

The watch was a childhood discovery on a lonely beach at his grandparents’ home. That summer day, the wind whistled sorrowful melodies and the ocean carried waves of melancholia. He had just shattered his mother’s favorite mug with a bouncy ball, and imagining her wrath, his first instinct was to flee. 

As he ran, his forlorn footprints cut through the shoreline, the only visible human disturbance for kilometers around. The air smelled of salt with hints of freedom and nostalgia. If he craned his ears, he could have heard decades worth of whispers of those lost at sea, reckless voyagers who would rather hold semi-mythical treasure maps than their family members’ hands. 

His foot hit something cold and hard. Grimacing, he stooped down to examine the object. Buried beneath a layer of sand and regret was a watch. 

Even to his young, untrained eyes, Baekhyun could tell that the watch was valuable. There was a set of initials engraved, HZT, but no other sign of ownership. He decided it would be a more-than-sufficient replacement for his mother’s mug (he did not yet know the distinction between sentimental and monetary value). 

The time on the watch showed 2:00, but it was noon when he had left home. It couldn’t have been past 12:30. Drawing from the times he had watched his father adjust his Rolex knock-off, with his thumb and forefinger, Baekhyun pulled the crown all the way out and rotated it counterclockwise. 

At first, nothing extraordinary happened. Then suddenly, his vision blackened. 

Baekhyun was greeted by pearl-white sunlight that filtered through half-open blinds and the drifting fragrance of sweet rice pancakes. Dainty porcelain tableware painted with flowers and affection lined clean, wooden shelves. His delicate hand held a rubber bouncy ball.

A glance at the clock revealed it to be only 11:00, even though it had been 12:00 not long ago. Children don’t waste time to disbelief. He knew what had happened. He knew what needed to happen. 

Baekhyun pocketed the bouncy ball and darted out the door. This time, he was not running away; he was running  _ toward _ something. 

He dug beneath layers of sand and opportunity, and sure enough, the gold watch was still there. He lifted it carefully, fingers brushing over its glass face. Awe tinted his cheeks carnation pink. He now knew that this watch was worth more than a thousand of his mother’s mugs. 

He fastened it to his left wrist, but even with the tightest setting, the watch hung loosely on his forearm. But as he traced his footsteps back home, Baekhyun pledged never to lose his treasure. 

A few haphazard trials later, Baekhyun came to a few conclusions: he could travel backward at most 12 hours; his ability ought to remain undiscovered; and time was a powerful, powerful phenomenon. 

The function of the watch evolved as he grew older. Staying out of parental trouble became redoing tests became resolving dating conflicts became redoing job interviews became accurately “predicting” the stock market. Junmyeon was correct in that Baekhyun couldn’t pay for time, but simply because he didn’t  _ need _ to. Not only could he get time for free, but having extra time meant a six-figure salary straight out of college. 

Baekhyun could have chosen to use the watch for magnanimous purposes. He could have a Nobel Peace Prize if he really wanted, stopped wars and saved lives or whatever superhero shit. But Baekhyun was, like most people, egocentric. Unlike others, he acknowledged this trait; it was too much of a hassle to wear a mask of generosity. Humanity was terminally fucked, and in a cyclical economy, survival of the fittest was the way to go. Call him cynical, but working in investment banking had killed his hope for humanity’s redemption. Distinctions between good and evil are arbitrary; hedge fund managers and world peace activists held one common goal: to make their own lives worth living.

Who knew it only took a guy with a lopsided smile and a guitar on his back crashing into him to shatter his disillusionment?

*********

_II._

Heat has diverse manifestations: the glare of the April sun; perpetual perspiration on the nape; the pungent yet addicting smell of rubber abrading asphalt; hot blood rushing to one’s head; hoarse cheers barely audible against engine noise, aerodynamic drag, and tire tread.

There’s sweat in his eyes but Baekhyun doesn’t dare blink. A fraction of a second can make or break a racer’s career and he has paid too much money for front row tickets to miss the moment when his favorite racer would secure first place. 

Racing is a dangerous drug, one that racers make livelihoods out of and spectators take vicariously. There’s thrill in high stakes and traveling at inhuman speeds, in the idea that mere milliseconds could decide fate, all with the constant risk of crash and burn. As a mechanical engineering student who has chosen the path of stability over risk, what better way to let off steam than investing in the auto racing industry? 

For Baekhyun, he doesn’t invest in the industry per se, but an individual: Park Chanyeol, the Phoenix, South Korea, 1984 Champion of the Monaco Grand Prix. Six feet of glory, ice lemonade smile on honey dewdrop skin, sultry eyes that swallow you whole then spit you out, baritone voice that leaves your knees trembling for more. 

Baekhyun’s friends say that he only likes Chanyeol because they are both South Korean. But this commonality only touches the tip of the iceberg. Chanyeol stands out from other racers because he carries a nonchalant, unphased attitude. Lips pulled into a shadow of a smirk, he never tries too hard in front of the camera, never overshares. He’s selective with sponsorships, partnering with brands that he actually uses on a day-to-day basis. 

While other college students spend lazy Sunday afternoons at the movie theater or the arcade, Baekhyun pores over Chanyeol’s interviews. He knows every detail from Chanyeol’s favorite color (scarlet) to his greatest fear (being seen as more extraordinary than he really is). Despite this, Baekhyun feels as if he doesn’t truly know Chanyeol. And it’s not just him — Chanyeol is elusive to everyone. 

The racer holds a kind of mysteriousness, a semi-transparent veil that reveals just enough for you to crave for more, but never enough to quench your thirst. His interview answers are terse, as though he has a daily word limit. He occasionally declines to reply without providing an explanation, leaving people wondering whether something made him uncomfortable, or if he simply finds the question boring. His straightforwardness has made him a vulnerable target and scapegoat within the racing industry, but Baekhyun finds Chanyeol’s indifferent attitude alluring. Figuring Chanyeol out is an exciting challenge; whereas physics applies formulas to the universe, Baekhyun has yet to discover the formula that guides the racer’s disposition. 

***

Baekhyun has only interacted with Chanyeol once, but that single interaction has been embedded like a tattoo on his ribcage. 

Chanyeol isn’t one to do fanservice, so it was by pure accident that Baekhyun stumbled upon the racer while bartending at Exodus, a hole-in-the-wall pub for lost souls and tragic mishaps. 

When one a.m. marked the beginning of the bar’s slow hours, Baekhyun mentally slumped forward, eyes glazing over glass bottles of colorful syrups and booze. Just as he was about to close the entrance to new customers, the door opened and a frosty gust chilled the pub’s humid interior. His vision slowly cleared to the dark, enigmatic eyes of a figure dressed in black.

It’s hard to say what allowed Baekhyun to see past Chanyeol’s face mask, fedora, and shadows that veiled his features. Maybe it was the air, which suddenly sharpened Baekhyun’s senses like a predator catching the odor of blood. Or the faint, ashy cigarette scent — not that Chanyeol ever smoked on TV, but he seemed like the kind of person who would in private. Or the way he strode up to the bar counter with a purpose, no inefficiency in his movements. Yes, that must be it. 

“Give me the strongest you’ve got.” Chanyeol’s voice came out strained, sounding tired. 

“We’re closing soon. You shouldn’t knock yourself out,” Baekhyun warned. “It’s late.”

“You underestimate my tolerance,” Chanyeol said with a smirk. 

Baekhyun’s eyes followed the curve of Chanyeol’s upper body, from his broad shoulders, to his toned arms, and down to his large hands, which were trembling. Chanyeol seemed to notice Baekhyun’s observation because the racer balled his fists, and Baekhyun immediately shifted his focus onto the cocktail syrups and mixers. 

Though racing was a niche activity in South Korea, after Chanyeol won the 1984 Monaco Grand Prix, he began to hold a celebrity-like status. For the racer to choose a shabby streetside pub over the exclusive high-profile Seoul lounges only heightened Baekhyun’s admiration for him. 

This could be an opportunity to dig behind Chanyeol’s veil. At this thought, Baekhyun bit down on his lip, scolding himself for succumbing to such selfish desires. But one question couldn’t hurt… 

“What brings you here?” Baekhyun asked as he reached for both the light and dark rum bottles. 

Chanyeol appeared distracted for a moment, eyes tracing the row of dim hanging ceiling lights, before turning to stare holes into the bartender. Oddly enough, Baekhyun wasn’t intimidated; instead, touched by a feeling of security beneath Chanyeol’s commanding gaze (Is this what infatuation does — erase all cowardice?). 

“Wanted to get away from everything.” Chanyeol replied with an amused tone. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” 

Baekhyun shrugged. “I don’t know, there’s a lot of other bars to go to. Nicer ones.”

Chanyeol raised an eyebrow. “You’re not very good at selling this place. Plus, perhaps ‘nice’ is exactly what I’m trying to escape from. Now, are you going to make my drink or continue to stare at me?”

Baekhyun “ah”-ed and returned to make Chanyeol’s cocktail, a hot flush creeping up his neck. 

Baekhyun reserved this recipe for customers who were a paradox personified: An ounce of apricot liqueur. Two ounces of orange juice. A dash of lime bitters. Three half-hidden smiles. A handful of ice. A spark of curiosity. One more ounce of high-proof rum. 

“Here you go, a Zombie.” Baekhyun slid the orange gradient cocktail across the counter. 

“What a fitting name” was all Chanyeol said before lifting his face mask, tilting his head back, and downing the drink in one go, leaving Baekhyun with a dropped jaw. 

The racer wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and pulled out a leather wallet with the other. He placed a wad of crisp won bills onto the counter. 

“Keep the change,” Chanyeol said as he saluted, then turned around and made his way out the bar with long, silent strides. 

Baekhyun counted the money. The racer had left a 50,000 won tip and a piece of his loneliness behind.

***

The audience ripples like a seismic wave, then erupts, splitting the earth in a clap of thunder. In the distance, a few blurry specks become an array of neon vehicles, boasting flamboyant brand logos like cash cow medallions. In synchronization, the audience members crane their necks and squint their eyes, trying to discern who’s in the lead. 

The race commentator announces, “Up front for lap 60 we have…”

The crowd holds its breath. From the haze of colors, a scarlet dot materializes. 

“The Phoenix!” 

Even with a sore throat, Baekhyun jumps to his feet, cups his hands around his mouth, and yells. His voice is lost in a sea of noise, some of disappointment, but everything sounds like joy to his ears. In moments like this, he forgets that shared loneliness between him and Park Chanyeol, that ounce of unexpected humanity from someone so spectacular, so famed. Racing is a sport made for people like them — people who exchange their troubles for vehicle exhaust and gasoline-scented euphoria.

The cars zip past the audience in streaks of color, and suddenly the place smells like burnt rubber. Beneath the racer’s helmet, Baekhyun imagines Chanyeol to look like this: concentration pulling his eyebrows together slightly, the insides of his cheeks between his molars until he draws the metallic taste of blood, eyes stuck on the curves in the road ahead. In the single-person race car, there is no room for regrets or second thoughts. His grip on the steering wheel is tight and on victory even tighter; life is slippery and fleeting, but so are his titles. 

The roadway noise diminuendos as the cars pass the Monte Carlo harbor, mere insects relative to grand, swan-like yachts perched in seas where centuries ago, Roman commanders raised blood-hungry armies. The crowd settles into a pleasant hum as spectators begin to speculate who will come out as the lead in the next lap.

“What do we have here?” The race commentator’s voice causes the entire audience to jolt in surprise. Only a fraction of time has passed, too short for a lap, even for world champions. “There is a car already on its 61st lap, at 290 kilometers per hour. Of course, it’s The Phoenix!”

Chanyeol comes like a candle flame bullet, ready to burn everything he touches. But even as he approaches a curve in the track, he doesn’t slow down. 

Something isn’t right. An ugly, churning knot crawls in Baekhyun’s stomach. Racing isn’t about being fast, it’s about control: ebbs and flows like the ocean tide, recognizing that it takes receding a little to unleash momentum. A grand prix champion should know this well. 

Chanyeol veers to the left at the Nouvelle Chicane, an artificial, sharp left-right curve in the track. But while he’s supposed to immediately turn right, horror grips Baekhyun’s gut as the racer bolts forward at full velocity. 

With such force, Chanyeol’s vehicle slams through a stout metal gate and a thin wired fence with little resistance except the dissonance of metal against metal, as if the gate was waiting to be broken and let out a cry of relief at the taste of liberation. 

In projectile motion, physicians use a set of formulas to calculate how much time an object spends in the air when launched with an initial horizontal velocity from an elevated position. In real life, Baekhyun finds that these formulas are non-applicable, the laws of time no longer functioning.

The next moments pass by in frames: Chanyeol’s car suspended in air — a heron in mid-flight; wheels touching the water’s surface — a light ray refraction; slow submersion beneath the Mediterranean Sea — Atlantis, the lost city; then, quiet — a phoenix’s song burnt into ashes. 

Water usually meets fire with a hiss and a billow of smoke. When the sea meets Park Chanyeol, even though there’s nothing visible, Baekhyun feels like he’s choking on fumes. 

***

The press labels Chanyeol’s death as a tragic accident, a moment of distraction, a champion’s rare slip. South Korea mourns. Anti-fans and competitors celebrate behind closed doors. 

Baekhyun knows better. A champion of the Monaco Grand Prix doesn’t just make a mistake like that, especially when the world is watching. There was purpose behind the racer’s high speed, intent in his immaculate arc as he flew to the sea. 

When Baekhyun pictures Chanyeol’s last moments, when The Phoenix sheds his racer persona and is just Park Chanyeol, there’s regret in his eyes. 

Baekhyun wonders if it’s right to save someone who chooses willingly to die. Maybe he’s overestimating himself, but he thinks there’s no way to know the answer unless he tries. 

On his left wrist is a gold watch. He pulls the watch crown outward and turns it counterclockwise. The hands begin to spin. And so does the world.

*********

_ III. _

The early summer night is heavy with cicada song and magic — the kind of magic that fools fall for. Fortunately, most people are fools. Unfortunately, tomorrow, they will have to make a fool out of the emperor. 

When Baekhyun and Chanyeol first joined the performance troupe at only nine years old, the troupe was looked down upon as thieves disguised as nomadic gypsies. As orphans who lost their families when their village was ransacked, staying was their only option for survival. Through years of toil, spilled blood, and bent spirits, like pagoda builders stacking one brick at a time, the troupe constructed a reputation. Now, they were considered a full-fledged circus — the empire’s most enchanting one. 

Baekhyun peers into his cracked bronze mirror. He sees a solemn visage, jutting cheekbones, porcelain skin, and cracked lips.  _ You must look happy _ , he thinks.  _ For the audience, for the emperor. Look happy. _ The corners of his mouth lift forcefully. He can hear the audience’s cheers: “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful!” “He looks like an angel!” “What a dazzling smile, I wish I could keep it!” 

But Baekhyun thinks that the person smiling in the mirror must be someone else. There’s a discordance between himself and his reflection; he’s looking at a doppelganger who, unlike him, has learned to swallow the lambent glow of joy. 

Nonetheless, Baekhyun is considered lucky relative to the other circus performers. As one of the top attractions, the ringmaster cuts him some slack. He goes to sleep with a stomach on the border that separates fullness and hunger, while less fortunate performers are given just enough food to pull them through to the next day. 

He spends most of his days ten meters in the air, balancing on thin ropes invisible from the ground. With such a distance between him and the audience, spectators cannot perceive things as they truly are. They see effortless jumps, bends, and tricks. Baekhyun sees shattered bones, lacerated feet, and the vast chasm separating him from safety. 

He used to be terrified of heights, begging for the ringmaster to spare him from tightrope walking. But as the performer with the smallest frame, he was forced to adapt. Otherwise, he was given nothing to eat. 

The highlight of every performance — the radiant, charismatic flame — is Chanyeol, the man who flies. His specialty is riding kites, soaring as high as the birds, carried by the wind. 

This began as an accidental discovery when they were children, when Chanyeol had climbed atop a large kite, joking about his plan to escape the circus by flying away. By luck (or misfortune), there just happened to be a gale that rolled in. A robust gust of wind swept the kite off the ground, and as he rose in the air, Chanyeol’s screams aroused the entire circus’ curiosity. The ringmaster was both an impatient man and a sinister genius, his fury quickly transforming into cunning exploitation. Why not turn the failed escape attempt into a circus act?

Because of the origins of kite riding, Chanyeol’s popularity is more of a burden than a blessing. The ringmaster hasn’t forgotten his escape endeavor, and since Chanyeol rolls in half of the circus’s profits, the ringmaster has ensured to attach a pair of perpetual eyes on him. 

Currently, the pair of eyes guarding Chanyeol is Baekhyun’s own. It was only a matter of time until the ringmaster realized that their inseparable nature could be exploited to keep the star attraction chained like a phoenix with clipped wings. 

This painful secret is a thorn shoved down Baekhyun’s throat: the more he swallows, the deeper it tears at raw flesh. Conspiring against his childhood best friend is betraying a part of himself. Chanyeol is his past, his present, and if all goes well, his future. But what choice does he have? Disobeying the ringmaster… the consequences are unimaginable. 

And so, his only goal: ensure that Chanyeol never tries to escape. 

The troupe stays in portable tents made from wool felt stretched over bamboo frames. There’s a persistent sheep smell that lingers throughout the camp, clinging to their clothes, seeping into their blood. No number of baths can rub the odor off. 

Chanyeol’s living quarters are across from Baekhyun’s, like they have always been. But as Baekhyun enters Chanyeol’s room (without knocking, of course; abandoned children fear privacy because it resembles loneliness), he catches another scent: the light, sweet fragrance of wildflowers. The same scent that signals summer’s arrival, one that has followed them since birth — a constant, no matter where they are in the empire. 

“Hey, why is it so dark--mmph.” A hand closes over Baekhyun’s mouth. Panic seizes him as the possibilities infiltrate his mind: a crazy kidnapper who will sell him for ransom, a thief after the circus’ meager belongings, the ringmaster’s henchman here to blackmail him. But then, he catches the strong wildflower aroma and instantly, relief washes over him. 

Baekhyun pries Chanyeol’s hand off. 

“What’s going on?” He whispers into the darkness. 

“I’m sleeping,” Chanyeol whispers back. 

“What? But you never sleep this early,” Baekhyun says, forgetting to keep quiet. 

“Hush. I’m  _ pretending _ to sleep. I told everyone that I need a good night’s rest for tomorrow.”

Baekhyun squints, just barely able to make out Chanyeol’s outline. “What do you mean?”

“Baekhyun.” 

Chanyeol’s hand, warm and large, wraps around his cold, slender fingers. Suddenly, Baekhyun is pulled forward and down, and everything becomes hot. They’re buried underneath a blanket, bodies pressed against each other, breaths intermingling. Instantly, memories come flooding back: that first winter spent without their families, Baekhyun would sneak into Chanyeol’s bed and they would hold each other as forlorn winds howled outside. It’s been so long, and yet, Chanyeol’s touch is still so familiar. 

Chanyeol’s next words shatter Baekhyun’s reverie. 

“I’m escaping. Tonight.”

“Chanyeol,” Baekhyun warns. “Not funny.” Chanyeol has always joked about escaping, but his jokes have increased in frequency lately.

“I’m serious. I can’t do it. I won’t be an animal anymore,” Chanyeol says. “I won’t be treated like a caged bird.”

“But we’re performing for the emperor. We’ve worked so hard, you can’t just give it up,” Baekhyun tries to explain. “Come on, just one more night and everything will get better.”

Even in the dark, Baekhyun can see Chanyeol shake his head. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself the night before every show. It’s not going to get better.” He inhales sharply. “I’ve already made up my mind about this.”

“But what about me?” Baekhyun asks, voice cracking. 

“Come with me,” Chanyeol says. “We can live together, where no one can find us.”

For a moment, Baekhyun almost gives in. The image of just the two of them living in open grasslands among the wildflowers is so tempting and tantalizing, he could reach out and touch it. But twenty years spent in mostly misery is enough for him to recognize that this lifestyle is a mere fantasy. 

“This won’t work out. They’ll find us,” he says. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to come with me. But I don’t know if I’ll succeed unless I try.”

Baekhyun opens his mouth, then closes it, finally admitting to himself that trying to change Chanyeol’s mind will be fruitless. A silence engulfs them, heavy with one thought: this is it. This is the end of their journey together. After tonight, nothing will be the same. 

Then, something tightens around Baekhyun’s wrists. Just as he’s about to ask what’s going on, a cloth covers his mouth, pulling at the corners of his lips. He tries getting up, but the coarse rope around his wrists burns his skin; he’s tied down. 

“I’m sorry, Baekhyun. I have no other choice,” Chanyeol whispers. “It’s for your own good. When they find out I’ve escaped, tell them that I did this to you. That way, you won’t be blamed.”

Baekhyun squirms, wants to tell Chanyeol that he’ll come along, that being alone is infinitely worse than being caught together. 

He knows Chanyeol is gone when everything turns cold. Baekhyun’s summer has left his side. 

Throughout the night, lightning splits the sky and thunder shakes the earth. Baekhyun lays underneath Chanyeol’s covers, shivering alone. 

***

Morning arrives damp, air heavy with moisture as the grass swallows sweet dewdrops, a pleasant respite from the past month’s arid conditions. 

The ringmaster storms into Chanyeol’s living quarters, a lagging piece of last night’s tempest.

“Where is he?” The ringmaster growls, stampeding across the tent. He spots Baekhyun tied up on Chanyeol’s bed. 

As the ringmaster rips Baekhyun’s gag off, Baekhyun thinks that he would prefer to remain tied up rather than deal with the upcoming events.

“Where is he?” The ringmaster repeats, not questioning Baekhyun’s conditions. 

“I don’t know,” Baekhyun whimpers. He’s beginning to see why Chanyeol tied him up; now, he doesn’t have to lie.

The ringmaster seethes, “When I find him, I’ll kill him.”

***

Turns out, killing Chanyeol isn’t necessary. 

The ringmaster’s henchmen find his body by a riverbank, so charred that at first they mistook it for a burnt log. His once-pretty face was unrecognizably disfigured. The only detail that gave his identity away was the large kite a few meters away. This was the kite that Chanyeol was supposed to ride on in front of the emperor. Somehow, it was undamaged, the gold phoenix still arrogant and majestic as it stretched its wings across the red fabric. 

The circus will now have to find a new kite rider. Doing so in time for their show in front of the emperor is impossible. But one day, someone just as daring will replace him, someone who doesn’t have the desire to escape, and people will forget him entirely. 

But Baekhyun will remember. To him, Chanyeol is irreplaceable. A best friend. A soulmate, maybe. Someone who he literally cannot live without. 

In his pocket is a gold device, found beneath rubble of their village, but Baekhyun thinks it’s not from this era. He pulls a rod on the side of the device outward and turns it counterclockwise. The arrows on it begin to spin. And so does the world.

*********

_ IV. _

If a habit takes two months on average to form, then a commitment of eighteen years ought to be considered a tradition. 

Every year on the fall equinox starting from when he was six years old, Baekhyun rises at dawn to climb the golden hills to the east. By noon, the sun shines directly above and his  _ jeogori _ is damp with sweat. It’s with great relief that he steps underneath the shade of the shrine, hands resting against its cool wooden pillars. 

The shrine is silent, save for the songs of carefree birds that hold no worries about the presence of humans infiltrating their home, except for Baekhyun, whom they’ve grown fond of. The other members of his village are off paying tribute to the god of the sea for a short monsoon season, the god of grain for a plentiful harvest, the god of health to steer away illness and death — essentially every god and goddess, with one exception: the sun god. 

The sun is a force so central to humanity’s survival, its glory touching every drop of Earth’s life, and yet, its god’s shrine is covered in cobwebs and vines, reeking of abandonment. The sun is too good. It behaves too well, too predictably. Others bend to the will of the gods out of fear, not love. There is no need to pray to a docile force, say the villagers . Baekhyun thinks they are taking the sun god for granted. 

He doesn’t have much to spare, certainly no gold or jade or jewelry. Just a basket of the ripest fruits, dried and preserved just for today, and a few old candles. He lights the candles and they flicker weakly, casting long shadows on the shrine walls. Then, after arranging the fruits in front of an altar, he kneels and presses his forehead against the floor. 

Tradition is odd because it’s difficult to distinguish between what happens one year and the previous years; he often can’t remember if things have always been one way, or if there have been changes to the shrine and its surroundings. However, this time he’s certain that there’s something different. With his head still lowered, he can sense a shift in the room — a warm draft, an extra shadow, an emanating energy. His limbs turn to stone.

A deep, mesmerizing voice comes behind him, ricocheting off the shrine walls. “Please rise.” 

Baekhyun gets onto his knees shakily. He turns his head, and as he catches sight of the figure behind him, the world stills. 

Oddly enough, awe replaces Baekhyun’s fear. The figure before him is tall and lean, his muscular body apparent beneath scarlet robes embroidered with gold. Long auburn hair is swept in a left part and cascades over his right eye, but his gaze is still piercing. In his right hand is a platinum sword with thick tendrils of fire snaking around its blade. This is no person, Baekhyun realizes, but a god _.  _ And not just any god, but  _ the sun god.  _

“Byun Baekhyun, I’ve watched you grow up over almost two decades.” 

Baekhyun opens his mouth but no sound comes out, not sure whether he’s supposed to say something to acknowledge the god’s presence or if speaking is disrespectful.

“No one else comes by here anymore. Why do you still bother?” The sun god asks. 

“I…” Baekhyun hasn’t even started his answer but his voice trails off into a pregnant silence. He’s suddenly overwhelmed by a surge of emotions that language cannot capture. How is he supposed to explain that he owes the sun god his life? 

Eighteen years ago, a particularly harsh winter struck the village. Temperatures were so low that he was afraid to go to sleep and never wake up, body freezing overnight. His family survived on one meal of watered-down vegetable porridge a day, which got thinner as the cold stretched far into spring. 

Each day, his mother grew progressively weaker. Her light cough turned into a rattle in her lungs whenever she breathed. Her cheekbones protruded outward, her lips perpetually tinged purple. Yet still, she ate less so that Baekhyun could eat more. He prayed desperately to the sun god,  _ please have mercy. Please let the sun come out, and I’ll worship you until I die. _

The day he thought,  _ This is the end _ ,  _ my mother is going to  _ die, he awoke to a surprise: the sun had broken through the clouds and was draping the landscape in honey shine. The thick snow was melting! Small green patches materialized in what once was a flawless white blanket. When he ran outside to inspect, he found that the green was not just grass, but budding vegetables just large enough to be picked for a vegetable broth. 

At the ripe age of six years old, Baekhyun cooked his first meal for his family. To his delight, as his mother ate, the color slowly returned to her face. She would live.

This was no coincidence, he thought. The sun god had listened to his prayers and saved his mother’s life. And for this, Baekhyun owed the sun god an unpayable debt. 

A debtor is supposed to fear their creditor. Yet Baekhyun looks at the sun god with reverence. Certainly, hatred and admiration are not mutually exclusive. But the admiration that Baekhyun possesses is a deep-set devotion, a tender comfort that someone out there is listening. How can he express this sentiment in mere words? 

Now, his first time seeing the sun god in person, he’s struck by how young and handsome the deity is. Baekhyun imagined the god to have a long white beard that swept the floor and a full, jiggling belly. The sun god does possess a pair of endearingly large ears, but other than that, he carries all of the features of a picturesque young man, appearing not much older than Baekhyun himself. In fact, he’s so good looking that Baekhyun can’t help but feel a strong attraction toward him. 

Baekhyun is so busy staring that he forgets to reply to the god’s question. 

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” the god says with a hint of disappointment in his voice. “You can call me Chanyeol, by the way.”

“Chanyeol,” Baekhyun whispers, memorizing the feeling of that name on his tongue. 

“What’s that?” The god —  _ Chanyeol  _ asks. 

“Nothing,” Baekhyun says hurriedly. 

“You sure don’t talk much,” Chanyeol observes. “But regardless, I’m not here to find out why. I’ve come for a different reason: to issue a warning.”

At this, Baekhyun raises his eyebrows. 

“I hope you don’t have any misconceptions about me. I am not a good god, Baekhyun. The fact that only you are here is visible proof. I, too, have my mood swings and periods of wrath.” Chanyeol closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if attempting to repress a burst of rage. “You humans are so  _ fickle.  _ The way humanity chooses which gods to worship has changed. Now, humanity’s relationship with the gods is shaped from greed. Prayers are only done to ask for benefits but when not praying, they lie, steal, commit fraud, cheat, and exploit. Do they not know that we gods have eyes everywhere? Or perhaps, they simply don’t care. 

“As much power as the gods have, we cannot change human behavior. We can only show signs of our dissatisfaction through consequences and punishments. Unfortunately, this time has come.”

Fear crawls up Baekhyun’s throat. “What are you going to do?” Surely, the god he has devoted three-quarters of his life worshipping couldn’t be that malevolent. 

“I’m going to destroy the sun.”

“What?” Baekhyun’s voice is timid and quivering. 

“You heard me. The sun. Destroyed. Eternal darkness,” Chanyeol says nonchalantly, as if all he’s planning on doing is blow out a candle. 

Baekhyun digs his fingernails into the cold earth. “But we will die.” 

“The scum of humanity will die. But you’re a good person, so you won’t. I’ve prepared a life’s worth of food for you in advance.”

Baekhyun purses his lips, unsatisfied with this answer because he wasn’t asking about humanity. By ‘we,’ he meant Chanyeol and himself. After all, what is a sun god without a sun? Can a god die? Scratch that — he’s too afraid to know the answer. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Baekhyun asks. “What makes you think I’m good?”

At these questions, Chanyeol’s stoic visage softens. But he doesn’t provide a direct answer. “You’re my last worshipper. It’s the best way I can thank you.” 

“You can thank me by not destroying the sun,” Baekhyun protests. 

Chanyeol shakes his head. “That’s not an option. People often forget that I’m not just the god of the sun. I’m also the god of justice, and it’s my responsibility to make and enforce judgement. Even if it means that a part of myself will be destroyed.” He seems to read Baekhyun’s mind.    
“After the sun disappears, I will no longer possess the ability to come down from the heavens. But trust that I’ll still watch over you.”

Baekhyun wants to say  _ wait _ , there must be some other way, that this isn’t just punishing evil, it’s punishing the good people too, it’s punishing all life on earth. A god, no matter how furious, shouldn’t do this. 

But his mouth stops working. His head pulses and his vision swings. Then, his face hits the cold floor and blackness overtakes his sight. 

When consciousness pulls Baekhyun back, there is no sign of Chanyeol’s presence. 

At first, Baekhyun questions his encounter with the sun god as he steps out of the shrine and the peach gradient of the sunset sky greets his view. Even the next day when he wakes up to darkness, he goes back to sleep thinking that it’s only just too early in the morning. But when he awakens again, still to darkness, he jolts up in bed. The reality of yesterday’s conversation suddenly presses on his chest. 

There is a hubbub of panicked voices coming from outside. Baekhyun slips on his outer robe and straw shoes before stepping out the door. 

“Where is the sun?” 

“How will we grow our crops?”

“Can we still light fires?”

“Will we live in eternal darkness?”

With every question, the fear in the crowd rises like a rising, angry tide. But Baekhyun doesn’t bother to answer any of their questions. Even if the other villagers believed them, knowing the truth would only stir relentless chaos. 

Seeing so many people in pain and confusion, each of their cries a stab to his chest, he can’t help feel sympathetically sorrowful. Even if these people have committed sinful deeds, can they not change? Is such extreme punishment justified? Why should evil be combated with more evil? 

When he looks up at the expansive night sky, absent of the moon’s luminous face, he’s hit by an immense hollow feeling. Who would want to stay in a world of gloom and desolation? Even if the sun god has promised him a life, in this life he would be merely surviving, not living. 

And Chanyeol. Baekhyun would never be able to see the sun god’s physical form again. Despite his disagreement with Chanyeol’s decision to destroy the sun, he could never hate the god. He’s convinced that Chanyeol didn’t want to self-destruct, didn’t want to shroud the world in darkness; the sun god has just been blinded by the wrong idea of justice. What Chanyeol needs is love. And maybe, Baekhyun can provide that. 

As the crowd’s cries crescendo, merging into a singular, layered wail, an urge blossoms within Baekhyun’s chest, overtaking his body. He  _ needs  _ to find Chanyeol. He can — and  _ will _ — convince the sun god to change his mind. Only then, can waking up every morning be worth it. Only then, will he have the possibility of seeing the god again. 

In his pocket is a gold device, found at the bottom of a dried-out well in their village, but Baekhyun thinks it’s not from this era. He pulls a rod on the side of the device outward and turns it counterclockwise. The arrows on it begin to spin. And so does the world.

*********

_ I. _

The city breathes and warm, silver puffs of water vapor mixed with ubiquitous egotism clogs the bleak air. Breaths of death; like cigarette smoke, not only in appearance, but also in its self-destructive ambience. 

“Here is fine,” Baekhyun tells the taxi driver, eyes glazing over the concrete jungle and its zombie-like inhabitants. He hands the driver the exact measured change for his same daily fee. 

The hustle of mindless pedestrians and friction of tires against asphalt is merely a background hum as he steps foot onto the busy intersection. His head is locked in the direction of his office’s glass entrance doors.

Someone slams into his shoulder with full force. Baekhyun ignites, “Watch where you’re going, you crazy bast—” 

“Sorry, sir! Sorry!” A youthful man with wide eyes and large ears is the culprit. He carries himself with ingenuity, from his awkward gait to his lopsided smile (his teeth are nice). He’s a musician (guitar on his back) and he’s late (chasing a bus) for something urgent (he’s breathless and sweaty).

There’s something  _ different _ about this man. In today’s era, it’s a trend to blend in and there’s no room for mistake, no time to be late; the world is unforgiving, cruel. Yet this man is careless enough to rip through downtown Seoul, guitar balancing precariously on his back, chasing a bus that is about to pull away from the station.

Baekhyun can’t peel his eyes away, grounded in place by an inkling of recognition. The musician reminds him of someone he might have once known, or perhaps of someone he will get to know. Something at the intersection of déjà vu and foresight lingers on his tongue, and the taste is bittersweet.

“Wait!” The musician, just a dozen meters behind the bus, yells as though the bus driver can hear him over the morning traffic. He grasps his guitar case strap with one arm and the other waves frantically. Baekhyun finds himself praying for the guy’s success. 

The driver must have noticed the guy because the bus slows. The musician runs up to the bus entrance, relief stamped on his features. Baekhyun lets out a breath and water vapor curls in tendrils from his lips. What a strange scenario, he thinks as he turns back toward his office building. 

Then, from behind him comes a harsh thud. A long, blaring honk. The screech of rubber tires grating against pavement. A crack. And then, silence. The city’s cacophonous orchestra reaches a rest measure, and so does Baekhyun’s heartbeat. 

A metallic odor mingles with cigarette breaths, wrapping rough fingers around Baekhyun’s neck. A siren cuts through the silence, long wails like a mother mourning over her lost child. 

Even though Baekhyun knows that death has smeared its fingerprints all over this place, he still turns around, latching onto a whisper of hope that maybe, death was lenient this time. 

Black canvas, crimson splatters, twisted pale limbs, a collapsed toothpick tower. The guitar case is splayed open, revealing a still in-tact instrument — just a wooden contraption without its musician.

The ambulance arrives and healthcare professionals swarm out like bees. Baekhyun wants to ask, Why bother? Stop wasting your time; the guy is  _ dead. _ People have already begun to return to their modus operandi, and the city orchestra crescendos. 

However, all Baekhyun can tune in on is the ever-so-slight quietness of a lost life, which is deafening to his ears. One less pulse, one less breath. In a society that worships homogeneity, one life is insignificant. 

Why, then, can’t he get the musician’s guileless face out of his head? That haunting familiarity persistently tugs at his conscience, and Baekhyun is filled with a thousand we-once-weres and we-could-have-beens.  _ The guy is dead, _ Baekhyun mentally repeats, but this only leaves him more unsatisfied. The musician is a forgotten dream or an extinct language or fingertips trying to touch a cloud. Baekhyun  _ must _ try to remember.

Baekhyun reaches for the object on his wrist that he once vowed to never use again. The gold watch catches the sunlight and it glints like a warning signal that’s made to be dismissed. It’s an antique, the kind that pawnbrokers swipe for jaw-droppingly cheap prices from desperate housewives. 

But suddenly a foreboding feeling fills him — a deepset, instinctual fear that there will be unintended consequences if he uses the watch. Though he has pledged to decrease his reliance on the trick of time, this is the first time he has felt  _ terror _ . Strange senses overtake him: smoke fumes in his lungs, a crack of thunder, a never ending web of black. A thought enters his mind: manipulating time is wrong, it isn’t  _ natural _ . He cannot continue to run away from fate. 

His fingers retract, and the sensations immediately withdraw. Baekhyun turns around, back to his shiny skyscraper office, and walks away from the commotion behind him. 

***

“Byun Baekhyun?” A pretty but visibly tired nurse calls out his name to the waiting room. 

“I’m here.” Baekhyun rises from his seat and makes his way toward the hospital’s medical rooms. 

To some, the hospital’s sterile white hallways are suffocating. To Baekhyun, they are a source of security — an annual reminder of his pinnacle health. However, while his familiar territory is the hospital’s second floor where the private patient rooms are located, the nurse passes the elevators. 

“My apologies, Mr. Byun. The private rooms are full today. If it is alright with you, we can complete your checkup in the two-patient rooms,” the nurse says. 

Baekhyun’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t protest. His appointment is always on the same day every year. To reschedule just for a private room would throw off his entire schedule. 

“That’s fine with me,” he says. 

When he enters the shared room, the other patient is already inside, lying in a hospital bed. The nurse leaves them alone to fetch Baekhyun’s doctor. 

Baekhyun does all he can to distract himself and not look at the other patient, examining the health charts on the back of the room’s door. To put it virtuously, privacy is a value he respects. To put it selfishly, he would like to pretend that this is a private room. But when from behind him comes a loud groan, he gives in to his temptations and turns around. 

The other patient is propped up by pillows in an uncomfortable position. Gauze wraps around nearly every inch of the patient’s body not hidden underneath a blanket, leaving only a pale, sickly face wearing a grimace. Baekhyun feels sorry for the guy (at least, he thinks it’s a guy), wondering what near-death experience could possibly have put him in that position. 

Then, it strikes him: it’s the same guy from the car crash a week ago! 

“You’re alive!” He blurts instinctively, surprise blatantly stamped across his face. But how could this be? He was certain that the guitarist died. There was no way anyone could have survived such a brutal crash. Even if the guitarist hadn’t died on impact, he should have passed eventually… and yet, the guitarist is sitting, breathing, and looking at Baekhyun.

The guitarist doesn’t reply (he’s too injured to talk, Baekhyun figures), only gives Baekhyun a look, which he thinks is one of recognition. 

Baekhyun wants to laugh at this coincidence. What are the odds of two passing strangers in a city with a population of 10 million meeting again? Extremely low. And the probability of someone surviving such a fatal car crash? Even lower. Now, take their situation: multiply extremely low by even lower, and you get near impossible. It’s like a drama scene come to life.

But his amusement breaks as sudden, acute pain pierces Baekhyun’s wrist and he lets out a repressed cry. When he grasps his wrist, his vision turns white and his throat tightens. Just like the day of the car crash, a series of sensations overwhelm him. A mango-orange gradient. The sweet fragrance of wildflowers. A ray of sunshine breaking through thick clouds. These sensations are so sharp, so distinct that they feel real. And then, as he brings his wrist to his chest, it hits him. They  _ are _ real. 

With this realization, a flood of new memories embed themselves in his mind — distant ones, like they belong to a different person, a different timeline, or a different lifetime. A bartender who lived a double life as a mechanical engineering student and an investor in automobile races. A tightrope walker who faked a smile for a cheering audience. A peasant in ancient Korea who visited a lonely temple atop golden hills every year. One person threads all these lifetimes together: a champion race car driver who bent under fame; a kite rider who craved freedom; a god clad in scarlet robes who conflated punishment for justice.

Poignancy grips Baekhyun’s heart and before he can realize what is happening, heavy tears roll down his cheeks. 

“You’re alive,” he says again, this time his voice laden with centuries worth of regret and longing. 

But then he realizes that the guitarist — Chanyeol — must be weirded out. Who wouldn’t be if they woke up to a stranger standing in their hospital room with wet, salty cheeks and sorrow as deep as a ravine? 

Baekhyun wipes his eyes with his suit jacket sleeve and clears his throat. 

“Sorry. My name is —”

Before he can finish, he’s interrupted. “I know.” 

Baekhyun pauses mid introduction, eyes widening and lifting to the bedridden patient. Chanyeol  _ can _ speak, albeit his voice has the gruffness of not being used for a long time. And wait. Hold on. The guitarist said “I know,” which means — Baekhyun’s breath catches in his throat — Chanyeol knows who he is? A glimmer of hope flutters within him: perhaps the guitarist remembers those past lifetimes as well.

When he looks into Chanyeol’s eyes, his theory is confirmed. The look of recognition on Chanyeol’s countenance has transformed from one of a coincidental acquaintance to one that carries the weight of half a millennia. 

The floodgates open and Baekhyun’s hope cascades outward, no longer suppressed by doubt and uncertainty. He will later look down at his left wrist to find it empty and liberated. After all, when things are no longer needed, they disappear. 

But for now, the two of them stay like this: looking at each other, a gaze shared between near strangers, fan and celebrity, best friends, worshipper and god. Different relationships and distinct eras, but the same people. Several tragic endings later, maybe they are ready for a better destiny.    
  



End file.
